


Bang Bang

by fascinationex



Series: transformers fics by fascinationex [11]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alt-Mode Sexual Interfacing, Mildly Dubious Consent, Other, Prompt Fic, Tactile Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-18 23:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22001647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fascinationex/pseuds/fascinationex
Summary: For the prompt, "Erotic gun cleaning".
Relationships: Megatron/Starscream
Series: transformers fics by fascinationex [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1311599
Comments: 42
Kudos: 179





	Bang Bang

**Author's Note:**

> I asked for smut prompts over [on twitter](https://twitter.com/fascination_ex/status/1202516023619883009) and people were kind enough to respond to me. This one is for the prompt, "Erotic gun cleaning after Megatron gets dunked on the ocean while in gun mode. Gotta get that salt out of his joints! And his crevices! And- hmm, maybe pop that panel..." kindly given by Never a Larch.

There was an officers’ meeting being held in the medical bay. 

Breakdown was there – always hanging around, even though Starscream could swear he had never once seen Knock Out’s hulking ‘assistant’ attempt one bit of medical assistance – and Soundwave was a slender, silent shadow near the doorway.

There had been a vehicon having his leg reattached when they’d shown up, but Starscream had thrown him out. He wasn’t sure if he’d limped away or just expired in the corridor. No matter, there were plenty of them, each as stupid and disposable as the next.

On the lightly energon-spattered table, there was now a thick, powerful-looking gun. The glowing, energon-blue power cell indicated that one charge from that thing would probably take out more than one of Starscream’s missiles. 

As usual, Megatron didn’t want for firepower. However… 

He wasn’t turning back. 

“It’s a misaligned t-cog,” Knock Out said, sounding at best sort of bored. “It happens sometimes when you scan an alternative mode with low compatibility. With one as _ill-advised_ as this… he probably just got grit in a transformation seam.”

The gun _was_ pretty dirty. 

When Soundwave had been tackled, mid-air, by an improbably ballistic Bulkhead, both he and Megatron’s alt-mode had been sent careening into a swamp. Soundwave had carried half the swamp home with him, and the other half was probably in Megatron’s transformation seams.

This, Knock Out explained, in as condescending and put-upon a fashion as possible, had probably gotten stuck somewhere between plates and, when Megatron went to transform, had knocked his transformation cog out of its alignment. 

Stascream reached out, long claws hovering over the unmoving shape. He hesitated. Even mass-shifted down, with his whole being collapsed into a shape that was roughly the size of a large Earth gun (although no native would have recognised the dark form with its glowing energon lines), there was no question that the weapon on the table was alive. It had a potent electromagnetic field, and every so often it made a curious grinding noise – trying, he assumed, to transform despite the misalignment. 

Knock Out crossed his arms. The movement set his finish gleaming hard-candy red beneath the unforgiving lights of the medbay, and he gestured with the sharp claws of his top hand. “It’s inconvenient – but hardly catastrophic.”

_That’s a shame,_ thought Starscream idly. 

“Well, fix it, then,” he demanded aloud. 

Knock Out hummed. “A surgical adjustment is eminently possible, of course…” He looked down at Megatron, claws clicking thoughtfully against the softer white plating at his chin. His optics narrowed with a soft whir, zooming in as though he was looking for the first place to make a cut. 

Soundwave stepped forward, feet thudding deliberately on the floor and causing subtle vibrations in the Nemesis’s surfaces. Starscream’s optics ficked to him and then back to Megatron, helpless on the table. They were both the same swampy brown colour. Disgusting.

Watching Soundwave’s deliberate approach, Knock Out oh-so- _nonchalantly_ stepped around the table, which – coincidentally – put it between his own pristine plating and their communication officer.

He kept talking as though he’d never even moved: “Eminently possible, but unnecessary. Without intervention, I give it a day, maybe two days. Our glorious leader, Lord Megatron, has a robust auto-repair system. Recovering from such a major operation would take longer than simply leaving it up to his repair system. I assume,” he added, glancing warily toward Soundwave, “you’d prefer the _conservative_ approach to treatment.”

Soundwave regarded him for a few long, tense moments – long enough for Breakdown to shift uncomfortably on his feet and roll his shoulders like he was thinking about intervening. That would have indicated a poorly adjusted self-preservation module, in Starscream’s opinion – but who was he to stop free entertainment?

No intervention was needed, however. Finally, Soundwave nodded.

“Wonderful,” said Knock Out. It was impossible to tell if he was sincere.

‘He probably just got grit in a transformation seam,’ repeated Knock Out’s voice through Soundwave’s speakers, slightly distorted by the recording, which was sufficient to capture the information but low quality so as not to take up much space. 

“Then I suggest someone wash it out,” Knock Out drawled in response. 

There was a pause. Clearly, Knock Out was not volunteering for that particular job. 

Neither was Starscream, for about half a second. But then he realised that he didn’t _have_ to take Megatron and gently wash out all his little seams and pat him dry; he could just punt him out the airlock and claim to have ‘lost’ him. Even if he didn’t immediately ‘lose’ Megatron, there had to be a great many possibilities with their vaunted leader helpless and vulnerable and in his power – 

Starscream’s clawed hand shot forward, and then his long fingers hovered for a moment over the gun. Its plating flexed ominously beneath the shadow of his hand, but that was all. 

“I’ll be taking this, then,” he said, reassured in Megatron’s helplessness, and grabbed it. 

The gun was tremendously dense, heavy for its size, and hot, like it had just been fired – or like it was about to fire. Starscream squeezed its barrel, but there was not the least bit of give in the metal. It buzzed against his hand, a low and spiteful sound. 

He turned, and found Soundwave in between himself and the door. “Soundwave,” he said. He hesitated for a moment, and then added: “What is it?”

Soundwave tilted his head. He held out one hand. 

Clearly, he wanted Megatron to be handed over into his care. Like _Pit_ Starsceam would. This was his opportunity, and Soundwave wasn’t getting a bar of it.

Starscream looked at Soundwave, standing implacably with his hand outstretched as though he would wait like that for exactly as long as it took. 

He felt his optics narrow, and his mouth curved unpleasantly. 

“Goodbye, Soundwave.” He sidestepped his outstretched hand to slip past him into the corridor. Soundwave was turning with him as he went, evidently prepared to stalk him the whole way back to his quarters. 

“Don’t you have a bridge shift to attend to? Autobot messages to decode? _A visit to the wash racks to make?_ ” He flicked his free claws, unoccupied with Megatron, dismissively in Soundwave’s direction. “Go on.” 

Soundwave hesitated. Covered head to toe in swamp sludge, he still looked at Megatron in Starscream’s hand and hesitated.

He pulled himself upright and flared his wings threateningly: “ _Soundwave_ ,” he snapped, in a much harder voice. “ _Stand down._ ”

Another long, uncomfortable hesitation, faced with Soundwave’s blank and unreadable visor. Around them the ship’s noises seemed deafening in the silence: soft creaks of shifting pressure, little purring engine noises, the dull hum of the lights. 

At length, Soundwave stepped back. Sludgily.

“About time you remembered who your _superior officer_ is,” Starscream hissed, clutching Megatron to his chest plates with one tightly-clenched fist, smearing dirt onto his own pristine plating. He twitched one wing, lifted his chin and strode on down the corridor. 

Behind him, he heard the bemused drawl of Knock Out’s voice, although he wasn’t sure what he said. The partially-obstructed glow of Soundwave’s bio lights glanced off the walls, moving as he turned to face the doctor instead. 

Starscream stormed deeper into the ship. No matter. Soundwave would just have to do as he was told.

Any irritation Starscream felt was rapidly washed away at the thought that he had at least the day with Megatron, voiceless and powerless, and entirely at his mercy…

He let the automated door of his quarters swish closed behind him, dropped Megatron onto the only clear space on his cluttered desk, and regarded the heavy gun. He could feel the electromagnetic field. Megatron: wary and guarded as ever.

He slung himself into his seat to think about it. He’d snatched this opportunity as it was presented to him, of course, but he really hadn’t decided…

He couldn’t just blast him to ash or blow him up. Aside from how little room for plausible deniability that would leave him when Soundwave came asking questions, there was a strong chance it would be entirely ineffective. Megatron’s armour was dense when it was covering a mechanism the size of a human building. Mass-shifted right down to the size of a gun, with armour even denser, protecting a comparatively tiny area? He would have needed to blow up a whole energon mine to even come close to doing enough damage.

And the incinerators were right out. Megatron’s armour was still too dense. If he accidentally lost him down there, it might take days for him to burn down. That would be too slow.

The air lock seemed briefly like a good option. Not on Earth, obviously, as it was too small and too easily navigated. Starscream, of course, certainly had the authority to use the space bridge. However, it had a massively high energon cost, especially over longer distances, and their glorious leader’s, ha, _glorious leadership_ had not left the Decepticons with a lot of room to manoeuvre regarding rationing. 

If Knock Out’s timeline was right, he might not have enough time between now and when Megatron turned back into a large, cranky Cybertronian warlord to both gather the resources and deposit him somewhere far enough… 

Starscream came to the very reluctant conclusion that if Megatron could recover in as little as one light cycle (which was, he assumed what Knock Out meant by ‘day’, because he had gone native like an absolute savage), he would be better served by simply not antagonising him. 

He would, in fact, be better off keeping him in _good working order._

Slag. Starscream should have let Soundwave take him. Soundwave was good for this sort of thing: patient, boring vigils and soppy care taking duties were _his_ wheelhouse, not Starscream’s. 

“You had better be _grateful_ for this.” Fat chance, of course – expecting gratefulness, or even acknowledgement, from Megatron, was itself a triumph of naive hope over proven experience. 

_Then I suggest someone wash it out_ , Knock Out had said. 

Surely that should have been Knock Out’s job? But if he’d left it with Knock Out – well, no doubt Megatron would even now be getting poked and prodded by dumb drones while their vaunted medical officer went joy riding with his ‘assistant’. 

Clearly Knock Out was incompetent, he decided, utterly ignoring that three minutes ago he’d been contemplating which airlock to punt Megatron out through. 

“Hmph,” muttered Starscream, scraping back his chair. He supposed he’d have to do it himself. 

If nothing else, he couldn’t leave Megatron’s filthy frame stinking up his quarters like this.

He pulled a heavy duty crate from beneath his berth, unlocked it and dug through his own supplies of wax, polish and cloths, buffing pads, brushes and fancy solvent additives. Did Megatron need his softest, nicest microfiber cloth? No he did not. In fact, a coarser one would probably be better for getting rid of any stray bits and pieces caught between those tightly clamped plates.

Megatron didn’t really need warm solvent, either. He only got it because when Starscream snatched up a basin and poured it out from the taps, it came pre-heated, already steaming gently in the cold air inside the Nemesis.

He returned to the desk, knocked off two data pads and an empty energon cube without looking to see where they clattered upon the floor, and put down his supplies. Then he looked critically at the design of the gun. 

It was… small. 

Comparatively speaking. 

It was only about the size of his own on board weaponry, and Starscream’s on board weaponry rarely needed the kind of maintenance that Megatron apparently now did. _His_ frame, perfectly adapted to the alternate mode he’d chosen (unlike the alternate modes selected by _some people_ ), needed only to be kept clean by means of the same maintenance he’d used on Cybertron. 

…He did have a tiny kit that he used for the more delicate parts of his personal experiments, which included a tiny pick and several soft brushes. 

Annoyed, he fished it out from under a sealed tin of polish that he’d confiscated from an eradicon and slapped it, too, on the desk. 

He couldn’t believe he was giving Megatron a _bath._

“You had better not shoot me,” he warned in dire tones, and then unceremoniously dunked the gun into the basin of solvent. He _felt_ it twitch under his hand, but that seemed to be the extent of its capacity for independent movement. 

He didn’t want to do this more than once, so he swished Megatron’s alt-mode, a little vindictively, and held it beneath the surface until there were no more bubbles. Hopefully this meant that all of his internals were properly coated with the slick, smooth solvent, which would help loosen up anything caught in the seams. 

The solvent came out of him kind of… grey. Starscream pulled him out, dumped him on the desk again, and went to fill the basin once more. When he returned, the gun was in its own little grey puddle.

He pulled a face. “Eugh. Disgusting.”

In the clean solvent he started to scrub him down, dragging the coarse surface roughly in long strokes over his plating until the silvery finish showed bright and clear. He changed the solvent a last time and rinsed out the cloth, which was by then equally grey and smelling faintly but distinctly of swamp. Vile. 

Now that he was mostly clean, at least Megatron was no longer buzzing spitefully at him, or vibrating like he was about to fire on him. 

Starscream made a dull, irritable noise, but he finally took the stiffest of his brushes and dipped the end in his own high-quality oil. He would go over the tight seams with it, make sure the bristles slipped between the plates, and see if he couldn’t find and move whatever it was that Knock Out thought was caught between them. If it was further inside – well. Megatron would just have to figure that out on his own. 

In the mean time, he should have been honoured that Starscream was wasting so much of his own precious time on maintenance for him. He wouldn’t have been. Starscream knew that. But he _should_ have.

Cleaning him out was a waste of Starscream’s time, of course, but at least it wasn’t the most unpleasant waste of time he’d suffered under Megatron’s dubious command. He dragged the brush along the edge of every transformation seam he could reasonably, find, coming back to the smaller ones as Megatron winched them grudgingly further open, allowing Starscream tiny slivers of access at a time. 

The areas immediately inside transformation seams were rich in sensory circuitry and nodes, which were supposed to help prevent this very outcome by alerting a mech to anything in their way that was too big to be tolerated during transformation. Megatron’s, no doubt, were set to the tolerance of his _actual_ size, and not to the mass-shifted form of something big enough to fit in Starscream’s hands. 

Being rich in sensors, however, meant that they were sensitive, and when Starscream got the heavily-oiled bristles of his brush inside, Megatron tended to twitch. 

“Stop it,” Starscream growled, the third time he had to tug his brush out before he could try again. He lost bristles every time Megatron did it.

He thought, for a moment, that perhaps it was simply that the oil was cold. His wings were sensitive, and could sometimes twitch and tick when exposed to snow without any permission from him… 

He scoffed at the very idea that any part of Megatron might contain such delicate sensors.

“Stop it, or I’m getting the pick,” he hissed. 

Then, scowling, he dropped the oil bottle in the basin of hot solvent to heat. Just in case.

But one brush-stroke later, Megatron’s t-cog gave another ugly grinding noise in irritation. 

“Oh, certainly, _that_ will help!” Starscream sniped.

Megatron just ground right back at him. Useless, stupid, idiotic… 

Starscream shoved him under the hot solvent again. At least it wasn’t turning grey and smelling foul anymore. It suggested that his internals weren’t coated in swamp goo. Small favours. 

In time, however, and with enough persistent coaxing, Megatron did stop twitching and flinching every time he tried to touch him. His field relaxed minutely, in increments, and eventually he cracked the seams open as far as he could without further complaint.

“Excellent,” purred Starscream, as though it was an actual victory, when he could finally swipe the whole length down one of the seams without any clamping or twitching. It certainly _felt_ like a real victory, at that point. There was solvent on his desk and his own plating was spattered with both it and little streaks of oil, but such a compliant Megatron was a fascinating novelty. Now, if only he was this sensible during command meetings. 

It was easier, then: just long slow swipes of warm oil, sliding between dense armoured plates. He’d switched to a softer brush when it seemed as though the stiffer bristles were part of the problem. It glided, smooth and soft, and made a slick little noise when it hit a particularly prominent sensory node. Megatron had stopped even twitching at that, and lay silent with his plates cracked open.

In fact, Starscream realised, at length, he didn’t seem to particularly dislike the sensation – on the contrary, after sitting there and slowly stroking oil through what larger seams Megatron would allow him to reach, he could actually feel a low, dull charge building in Megatron’s plating when his hands came close enough to sense it. 

That was… fascinating. 

Although, Starscream supposed, it stood to reason. Who didn’t like softly warmed oil being ever-so-gently rubbed into some of the most sensor-rich parts of his frame? Mechanisms paid for that kind of thing. 

Well. 

… not from _Starscream_ , obviously. 

And probably not _Megatron._

But in general. 

Megatron’s field, too, when he paid attention, was no longer flat and wary: it felt warm, golden luxurious where it was pressed lightly against his own. 

After a moment, Starscream abandoned the cloth and brush into its bowl, letting the solvent soak through and clog it, and glanced over at the rest of the tiny brushes and instruments he’d set aside. Perhaps he wouldn’t need the others, after all. 

His claws had their own delicate little sensors. And they’d be so much better for finding all the good spots. 

Slowly and carefully, now quite confident that Megatron could not move, he slid a long and deadly claw into the crack between plates. His sensors felt the difference in heat immediately: the outside of Megatron’s form was warm, but the inside was melting hot. He dragged the very tip of his claw along the first seam, scraping gently. 

There was no vocalisation, for Megatron could say nothing; no movement, for he was helpless and mostly inert. But Starscream felt the way his field wobbled, and he heard the dull grind of the misaligned transformation cog activate, startled. 

He smiled smugly. “Mmm. You like that,” he murmured, and the field went all flat and inexpressive again. 

So Megatron _could_ hear him, he concluded, even if he couldn’t speak. And he didn’t much enjoy the vulnerability involved in letting Starscream know how very much he enjoyed it. 

_Oh, it’s much too late for that now_ , he thought smugly. 

Carefully, he tweaked the seam he’d been teasing. 

“None of that,” he chided, delighted by the subtle twitch of the plates under his claws. Was that sensitive? Had all his scrubbing and brushing made all Megatron’s little secondary sensors activate? He smiled. 

It was probably a combination of intense stimulation of the seam and the soft tickling of the brush, actually, Starscream decided, reaching again for the cloth. Instead of scrubbing away, he just wrung it out over the gun. He watched the slightly viscous fluids roll slowly down the bare metal with a fascination he hadn’t felt before. 

The gun shuddered slightly, plating flexing and relaxing under the solvent. 

Starscream shoved his chair back and went back to the box of his supplies. This time he did go for the softest microfiber cloth, taking a second to rub it between his own fingers. It felt nice, even to that cursory touch. He usually used it for the sensitive planes of his wings. 

With unprecedented gentleness, Starscream used that one to wipe the gun free of solvent. Then he picked another, equally long transformation seam and drew his claw down it. The sharp tip ghosted over the delicate, densely packed components beneath, and he felt that deep glowing flutter in Megatron’s field again. 

He kept going. The mechanics of folding a mech as big and complex as Megatron into a gun that Starscream could hold in a shooting stance were tricky, and had resulted in a great many transformation seams. Some of them only became visible when Megatron’s plating relaxed completely – which it did, reluctantly, slowly, over time. 

Starscream went digging for another seam, and another, and then another. He did find a tiny piece of grit in one, close to a sensitive corner, and he flicked it easily out with the tip of his claw and then gently washed the scratched surface over with solvent to make sure it stayed clean. There – a job properly done, should anybody care to ask. 

There were over two hundred little seams, and although Starscream had indeed initially thought to roughly wipe them over with a coarse cloth and call it ‘good enough’, now he was dragging his own fine, sharp claws over every one of them, coaxing them open and relaxed and dipping the sensor-rich tips of his claws into the warm internal mechanisms. 

Sometimes the seams closed up again, when he made the gun’s plating twitch and shudder subtly. But he wasn’t in a hurry, anymore. He had all the time in the world to coax them gently back open. Oh, yes. 

Megatron’s field relaxed at roughly the same pace, until every touch provoked a soft pulse in return, oddly open and responsive. 

Starscream found himself positively mesmerised by the slow, methodical work then, rewarded immediately when each slow drizzle of solvent and every gentle scrape of Starscream’s claws resulted in a strange, wildly fascinating throb of confused pleasure across Megatron’s field.

“How terrible for you,” he said aloud, in a voice that had gone throaty and pleased and gloating, “to be so helpless and open, shivering in pleasure beneath _my_ hands.” The plating tried to clamp down again, but he gently, deftly teased a sensor inside with the very tip of his claw, and the result was more like a helpless little clench and release: Megatron’s plating tried to close, and then shuddered open again, hungry for touch. 

The gun made a frustrated buzzing noise, the sound of charge building in preparation to fire.

As far as Starscream could tell, all it did was circulate charge faster and harder through Megatron’s tiny, inefficient systems: his seams all cracked wider in response, desperately circulating air to reduce heat, and some of the solvent disappeared into steam with a soft hiss. 

Starscream laughed giddily. How humiliating. 

He had even better access then, and he abused it shamelessly. His dexterous, dangerously accurate claw tips sought out new sensors and teased them to a swollen, crackling height of sensitivity, and when he was done with one he let the solvent drip, slow and tickling and maddening, across them. There were sparks, then, when the fluid bridged the little sensors and nodes buried deep, just for a split second, and flooded his tightly-packed systems with charge. 

At first Megatron had been making that noise on purpose, buzzing spitefully and swelling his own charge in threat. But now, with those lovely hot internals open to Starscream’s casual touch, it seemed obvious that he had simply lost all control: his useless little frame shook and kicked, charge crackling, plates rattling ever so softly as they trembled. 

Starscream wondered if he’d even know, when he overloaded him. Or would it not be obvious? Would he just keep going, obliviously, on and on and on? 

He had never realised that this, having Megatron’s field flaring wildly, pulsing and throbbing with a combination of frustration, lust and slowly-burning, blissful pleasure while he squirmed helplessly in Starscream’s iron control would be even possible, but now that he’d experienced it – 

Starscream always had patience for such… rewarding work.

He could see himself doing it for a while. 

His bridge shift wasn’t for _hours._

There was a low burn in Starscream’s own circuitry now, unfurling across his sensory network despite the lack of physical stimulation. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he mused, voice soft and throaty. It was a lie, or at least a half-truth: Megatron would hate it, of course. And also, apparently, Megatron would love it. 

What a _fascinating_ piece of information. Whole worlds opened up for Starscream with just that thought.

“I could keep you right here for hours,” he purred. “Helpless. Twitching and wiggling. Oh, like that,” he added in delight when Megatron responded to this suggestion by shuddering wildly for him. Sparks crackled between the seams. 

He suspected that he would know when he overloaded, after all, because he was already putting on something of a light show – those sparks flickered against the walls, against Starscream’s own plating, little spots of brilliant light. 

Starscream dipped a claw into one of the more delicate seams he’d found, scratching ever so gently at a swollen sensory node. He could feel the excess heat coming off that single node with his claw tip. It felt like a lot, and charge jolted up his hand when he made contact. Megatron’s transformation cog made another low, scratchy grinding noise. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Secretly. Being held down, flat on my desk,” he applied a little pressure, enough to stop Megatron’s gun form moving every time he shivered or jerked. “Just like this,” he went on, low and soft, “squirming for me –”

**BANG.**

“FRAG,” yelped Starscream, jerking back. 

It turned out it was easy to tell when Megatron overloaded, because he did so in an enormous discharge of energy and _fired._

The chair Starscream was perched upon tilted alarmingly, and he pinwheeled one arm and flailed his wings for balance for a second while it hovered over the balance point. It returned to all four feet. He clutched the edge of the desk. 

The air reeked of cordite, and there was a cloud of – not smoke, but rather fine particles of debris kicked up by the strength of the blast, which had taken out the entire wall. 

Starscream stared with startled optics through the wall of his quarters and into the corridor. 

At length, a single vehicon limped into view and peered around the edge of the hole. “Sir?”

Starscream waved the dust away from his face and glowered powerfully, finally heaving himself to his feet. “What are you staring at?” 

“Hole in the wall, sir!” said the vehicon, who was clearly rather literal minded.

Starscream scowled powerfully. “ _I can see that_ ,” he snapped. “Why don’t you _fix it_?” 

Immediately, owing to a well developed sense of self preservation and a desire to keep all of his limbs, the vehicon disappeared to find materials to do so. 

Starscream whirled on Megatron, who lay once again silent and inert upon his desk. 

“You,” he growled.

Somehow the gun managed to give the impression of a great and towering smugness. 

Spitefully, Starscream kicked the leg of the desk upon which he rested, which served only to knock another one of his own data pads to the ground.

**Author's Note:**

> (Six minutes later, Soundwave, freshly cleaned, shows up to whisk Gunatron away with the air of a parent who knows that their innocent child has been corrupted by present company and will not forget the offence.)
> 
> If you liked something about this please feel free to let me know in a comment, if you are inclined to comment.


End file.
